Image: The book, “The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma” by Bessel Van Der Kolk, M.D.
I am currently reading Bessel Van Der Kolk’s pivotal work, The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. Truly, I’d place it in the top five books I’ve ever read.
This book is remarkably insightful and impactful in addressing how traumatic experiences are carried in the body. In addition to explaining the physiology of post-traumatic symptoms in detail, he uplifts a number of somatic approaches to healing trauma and the ways it’s impacting our physiology and relationships.
After experiencing the collective trauma of this pandemic, I am recommending this book to everyone I know.
Have you read it? What do you think?
Also, what what are you reading lately? What would you recommend?
In fact, if you’re into the Enneagram, my specific type — 2w3 — is called, “the host.” I’m all about the hosting.
Close to a year and a half after the pandemic began, I am hosting my first potluck this morning. I’m glad this opportunity is back, and I never want to take it for granted.
Good morning from the sun and moon. Have a great day.
A photo of the sun from West Park in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Photo, Renee Roederer. Image Description: The sun is shining and is surrounded by clouds in a blue sky. There’s a park bench in the foreground with drops of water on it, and it’s near grass, wild plants, and trees.
A photo of the moon from Wellington Park in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Photo, Renee Roederer. Image description: The moon is emerging from clouds in a blue sky. The image is also framed by leaves and branches from trees.
Image description: A paper calendar with July as the heading for the month. Public domain image.
Time has been strange, shifty, and surreal during this pandemic. Recent events can feel like they happened much longer ago, and long-ago memories can feel closer than they might otherwise. Likewise, time can feel as though it’s moving slowly, rapidly, or as though we’re cycling between both of these.
All of that brings me to this shocker: Today, we begin the second half of 2021.
In some ways, it’s hard for me to believe we’re already at the midpoint, and yet, when I think of our lives in say, January, that feels more than a year ago, as opposed to a mere six months ago.
All of this has me wondering what I’d like to experience in the second half of the year. Life is definitely quite different than it was in January.
Image Description: Two coffees with foam shaped like hearts. Public domain image.
At the end of the month, I always like to say thank you for following here at Smuggling Grace. At this time, for those who are interested, I also extend an invitation to support this blog on Patreon. Or if you’d like, you can alsotip me with a coffee. This allows me to take out community members and provide support and listening space, so the gift extends forward in this way.
Both of these are always great gifts, but are never expected. I appreciate you being here and taking the time to connect here. And as always, thanks for engaging too. I enjoy reading and hearing your comments virtually on the platform, in emails, or during real time conversation. Thank you!
And I’m always happy to expand the audience as well. Do you know anyone who might enjoy connecting with this blog? If so, feel free to pass it along. The more the merrier!
Image Description: A tree within a forrest with visible roots. Public domain image.
Each of us is unique and particular, distinct and differentiated, yes (and these are great gifts)
But in every moment, each person is a We.
Every single one of us is a Collective — we are Plural not only in a myriad of thoughts, feelings, memories, and impulses, each as plentiful and contradictory as the next —
but also
We represent internalized others. We are a nexus of relationships, embodied.
Who is always rooted in Whose.
Whose — not possession or ownership. not fate or determinism.
There was a moment over the weekend, when I thought, “I’m feeling depleted.”
I’m not sure what brought this on specifically, except I suspect it’s a convergence of a number of aspects. Work has been full lately, though very rewarding. Beyond this, I know we’re all still emerging from a remarkably difficult year and trying to return to some sense of normalcy. We’re feeling that stress. And even good developments take energy.
It definitely makes sense to hit a wall from time to time with the thought, “I’m feeling depleted.”
One of the things that replenishes me most is stepping outside into nature. I feel differently almost immediately. I need to slow down, explore, and notice my surroundings. I love to discover beautiful details. I’m elated when I find pathways I didn’t know about previously. I love to cover new ground and see what I can find.
I need a sense of discovery.
I am an extrovert to my core, but while I’m trying to rebuild an in-person sense of a social life, I’m realizing that it takes energy to plan this and make it happen. We’re not in practice of having a collective economy of invitations flowing back and forth. This takes energy to re-organize.
During the pandemic, I flexed my introversion muscle too, and that grew in meaningful ways. Among other things, I discovered that I feel that internal sense of connection and kinship simply by being outside. I enjoy time to myself as I discover details, and extroverted as I am (I can’t put that away entirely) I take photos and occasionally send them to loved ones.
I need a sense of discovery. It does my depletion of energy a world of good.
Image Description: A black and white photo of Bob Youngblood, my AP English teacher from my senior year of high school. He’s looking to the left and smiling.
During my very last week of high school, every morning began with a creative conspiracy. It was implemented by giggling, teenage masterminds. Collectively, we struggled to stifle our laugher as we waited for our teacher to enter the room. Each stunt stranger than the last, we pranked Mr. Youngblood five days in a row. Our very last days of public education were filled with practical jokes.
And what sort of pranks do teenage masterminds create? Fire alarms, smoke bombs, or egg smeared chalkboards? Not these teenagers. We were way too nerdy for that.
Mr. Youngblood entered the room to find us all wearing. . . Ayn Rand masks.
Ayn Rand masks! A classmate had actually taken the time to find an Ayn Rand image, blow it up, print twenty-five some odd copies, and glue them to sticks so we could hold them to our faces and greet Mr. Youngblood as he walked through the door. Once he did, there we were, dressed to the nines in our Objectivism best. He loved it.
I could say that Mr. Youngblood introduced us to Ayn Rand, but it was, in fact, the other way around. Before we ever met him in the classroom, he assigned The Fountainhead as summer reading. We entered our senior year ready to discuss that large work, and we were introduced to one of our best teachers.
In his English class, we learned how to analyze classic works of literature. We learned how to hone our unique voices as we wrote with greater nuance. We had spirited discussions, and we challenged each other. And we laughed. Every day, we laughed.
This last aspect of our experience has been on my mind lately. Within it, I recognize that a larger lesson was present all along. It was never sketched out as a lesson plan, but Mr. Youngblood embodied it in the classroom. It was both simple and profound: He delighted in us as students. He thoroughly enjoyed us as people.
Sure, we occasionally annoyed him. But most often, he greeted us with a dry wit we also enjoyed. That wit accompanied our intentional learning and created spontaneous moments of playfulness. He believed in our voices. He delighted in us, and we knew it.
Bob Youngblood died almost five years ago. I have been reflecting on this kind of legacy, and pondering the gift of our educators who are certainly stressed during this odd pandemic era we’re living. Teachers impart great knowledge, but they are also in a position to teach a larger lesson of delight. When teachers delight in their students, their students come to know their own worth. From that awareness, they go on to learn in self-directed ways.
Since our Ayn Rand mask wearing days, my classmates and I have more than doubled in age. This astonishes me. Even more, I am amazed to consider who we have become. We have charted career pathways, formed families, and created meaning. Bob Youngblood would delight in all of this too, I am sure.
Robert Frost once wrote that poetry “begins with delight and ends in wisdom.” [1]
Good teachers spark delight and illumine human worth. From these gifts, a lifetime of learning continues.
Perhaps, you didn’t sleep well, or you have a looming deadline, or you’re juggling a heavy load of responsibilities, or you’re troubled by the news, you’re at wits end with your teenager, or you’re in a conflict with someone you love.
Whatever it may be, you are worth wellness, space, grace, peace, insight, and connection.
And a moment of play, something at once simple and profound, serves as a reminder. Play reorients and grounds us in what is most true: We are loved and living in a world with lovely gifts, even as it contains real challenges.
Play changes our brains. It calms us and helps us feel more connected. It also shifts us away from our anxious reactivity, allowing us to use the higher levels of our brain functioning to solve problems.
So find a way to play a bit today, even if it’s just for a moment.
Today, I take my cue from a hilarious, adorable toddler. She has a really hard time continuing to sulk in that tantrum once she starts to delight in squeaky, red shoes. Enjoy this video:
I stumbled upon an article that was fierce in its truth telling. Its words brought home a crucial point we need to hear: Wellness is not the answer to our overwork. That is, it isn’t the answer alone.
The only cure for overwork is to stop working.
We live in a culture fueled by a growing insatiability for greater profits and production. As such, we are working longer hours than ever before with pressures for constant availability, and there are fewer days off. But if we want individuals and communities to be truly healthy — including our sense of teamwork at work — we actually have to work less, and we actually have to make that commitment a priority.
Zoë Krupka brings this home in the article I mention: No, it’s not you: Why ‘Wellness’ Isn’t the Answer to Overwork. Krupka is concerned that we run this rat race of overwork continuously, thinking that a little meditation, yoga, or exercise will be able to keep its effects at bay. Physical and spiritual practices of wellness are truly great for us, but over time, the cumulative effects of overwork do harm our bodies, mental health, and relationships.
We have limits, and We actually have to stop working.
And let’s get honest: There can be a cost to honoring this commitment. In the article, Krupka mentions stories of clients she counsels in therapy. Her clients are hard workers who gave their best efforts, but their work was never perceived to be enough in their workplace culture. In one company, all people were told if they do not perform at 150% capacity of their position descriptions, they are not pulling their weight.
It takes courage to assert human needs for limits and balance. It can even get you disciplined or fired. Without question, that feels scary, and even more so when we have financial needs, family members who depend on us, or a desire to progress in our careers. But do we really want to work in a cultures that thrive on this kind of fear? When we’re working 60, 70, and 80 hour weeks consistently, even when we’re meeting the goals, those fears can still hang over our heads. No amount of work seems to keep them at bay.
And sadly, the great irony is this: More and more, studies are showing that productivity is significantly higher with fewer hours. Productivity drops after 50 hours, and it falls off a cliff beyond 55. We are working harder and losing more of our lives for less productivity.
We all want to work hard and do our best. Above all, we want to work in ways that add meaning, creativity, worth, and purpose. But when we feel like we’re losing our life to work — losing time with family, depriving ourselves of friendships, always rushing, and continually feeling the pressures of the impostor’s syndrome — is it really worth it?
We have to stop, and We have to change our relationship to work itself.
Dr. Cynthia Rigby, one of my professors in seminary, talks about this, and I love her language for it. She says that often, we think we need a bit of recreation to refuel us with more energy to jump back into the rat race. Instead, she said, we need Sabbath and play to help us change our relationship to the rat race itself — not mere recreation but re-creation.
As an addendum, I also love this quote from Barbara Brown Taylor:
“At least one day in every seven, pull off the road and park the car in the garage. Close the door to the tool shed and turn off the computer. Stay home, not because you are sick, but because you are well. Talk someone you love into being well with you. Take a nap, a walk, an hour for lunch. Test the premise that you are worth more than you can produce–that even if you spent one whole day of being good for nothing, you would still be precious in God’s sight. And when you get anxious because you are convinced that this is not so–remember that your own conviction is not required. This is a commandment. Your worth has already been established, even when you are not working. The purpose of the commandment is to woo you to the same truth.”
Smuggling Grace 